


there's a dragon in our back garden (and i don't know how it got there)

by poppiess



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Baker!Patton, Cabin AU, Cuddles, Dragon AU, Fluff, M/M, Movie Night, Prinxiety - Freeform, logicality - Freeform, prim's dumb comfort au, roommate au, so much fluff oh my god, tailor!virgil, writer!roman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppiess/pseuds/poppiess
Summary: but you're gazing up at it in amazement and your mouth falls open just so and your face is tinged with a gentle blush and some kind of innocence i've never seen the likes of before, and i can't remember how to breathe or speak or think, and oh god, it looks like we've got a lot more on our hands than the fire-breathing lizard crushing our vegetable patch.





	there's a dragon in our back garden (and i don't know how it got there)

**Author's Note:**

> pairing: pre-romantic prinxiety, background logicality  
> warnings: swearing, implied past neglect, food and eating mentions throughout  
> words: 2,145  
> notes: basically just a really cute and fluffy autumnal prinxiety au where they live in a cabin in the middle of the woods together and drive each other insane <3  
> uhh anything else: latin was super boring but then i had this idea and literally switched myself off for the rest of the two hours lmao. worth it though, like seriously it's a dead language does it really matter if i'm doodling a dragon instead of learning the ablative absolute? what even is the ablative absolute? i don't know, you don't know, let's all go to bed

it's two in the morning on movie night and virgil sanders is panicking _because roman has fallen asleep in my lap. oh my god, roman is asleep in my lap. roman fuckin' prince is curled up in my lap, and he's snoring softly like a little kitten or something, and oh my g o d is that a tiny bit of drool at the corner of his mouth? holy fuck, wow, okay. holy fuck._

_what do i do?_

_move, of course,_ the voice in his head wills him. _shove him off, laugh it off, brush it off, pretend it never happened. he was never asleep in your lap, with his strong hands resting lightly against your inner thigh, the dawn of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he nestled up to your stomach - nope. nuh-uh. never happened. tease him, berate him, then never mention it again._

well, it seems like the most _logical thing_ to do. 

but there's another tiny voice, a desperate and ragged and _illogical one_ , compelling him to _stop, don't touch him, don't wake him!_ because only now, with their faces inches apart, does virgil notice the bruises under his roommate's eyes. they're sickening, violent, edged with some kind of thunderstorm mauve and the beginnings of a greyish aegean blue, harsh against the warm caramel of his skin. he sees in his mind the way roman leans against his fist in the mornings, nose smudged with ink, pages and pages of scribbled writing spread across the dining table; he sees candles burning low in the early hours when the electricity isn't working again, the pen still scratching against the paper even as his eyes are slowly shutting; he sees flashing smiles masking utter exhaustion as he promises patton over and over _yes, i'm sleeping just fine, you don't need to worry, everything's all fine and dandy!_

so he doesn't wake roman, he doesn't let him stir, because's a frequent dancer with fatigue himself and god knows his roommate needs a nap.

living with roman prince would be difficult anywhere. living with roman prince in a secluded cabin in the middle of the woods, with nobody around for a mile and a half but the married couple on the other side of the lake and the occasional jogger, is a trial at the very best of times. it's not that he's eccentric - virgil'd be lying if he said he wasn't as well - it's mostly just how he doesn't _think._ he's a great writer and he's smart alright, but reckless and ditzy and throws himself into things without a moment's hesitation. he forgets to pay the bills and leaves everything until last minute and dances down the forest trail in the rain, singing at the top of his lungs, then catches a cold and has to stay in bed sniffling pathetically for a week and a day. he's... well, he's roman! unpractical, romantic, idiotic roman prince, who lives in a fairytale-esque cabin in the middle of the woods and spends his life writing poetry. logan had told him, back when he first announced he was (begrudgingly) moving in with this moron, that he would lose his mind by the end of the first month.

oh, he knew they'd spend every single minute of every single day torturing each other until one of them snapped. but it wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

with a chuckle full of contempt, virgil looks down at roman, his expression immediately softening at the sight of his sleeping face. somehow, his fingers have unconsciously strayed up to his neck where they run along the edge of his jaw, making their way through the dip of his chin, travelling up, up, up from there until they brush across the bridge of his nose. in the light of the fireplace across the room, virgil sees every feature of roman's face in a way he's never seen them before - his lips are soft and puckered, ever so slightly ajar, his skin is even more honeyed in the warm light of the fire, the curve of his eyelashes is almost childlike, innocent and vunerable. vunerable. _what am i doing?_ he leaps away with a hiss. this is roman! loud, brash, jarring, idiotic roman. roman, his personal nightmare. roman, his temporary roommate.

his temporary roommate of two years, six months and nine days, exactly.

virgil leans back ever so slightly, so as not to disturb the sleeping idiot in his lap, and lets out a sigh. yes, roman is annoying - insufferable, at times - but he's also... well, he's... 

he's dirt in between his fingers as they dig up a square of their garden to grow vegetables, because after a month and a bit of them living in the cabin together, virgil mentioned over dinner he'd never had a garden growing up, and he'd always wanted to grow carrots or something, and roman couldn't believe it so he walked three miles to the nearest shopping centre. it took him until the afternoon but he came back with enough seeds to stock a small farm, rummaged in the shed for a couple of tools and set to work right there, right then. it was hard work, heavy work, but something about the mud on his palms and the rain dripping through his hair and the deep, earthy scent of the ground was satisfying in a way virgil couldn't explain. he drank it in anyway, tasting the forest for the first time, liking the way the cold air soothed his hot back as he jabbed his trowel into the soil and pushed down. and by the end of the day, they were coated head to toe in sweat and mud and rain, but the garden was done, the neat rows of seeds tucked underground nice and snug, and virgil was _laughing_ \- ribs aching, tears streaking his filthy face, truly laughing - for probably the first time in his life.

and when they sat down at the sturdy wooden dining room table afterwards, showered and warm and bundled up in blankets as they sipped their hot cocoa, virgil found the true meaning of the word _cosy._ it was sitting in their tiny forest cabin, perched on a stool with the heat of a drink against his cold hands, hair rumpled, fur blanket around his shoulders, a fire blazing in the hearth and a candle slowly melting down atop a pile of musty books, with roman (mouth shut, for once) doodling a cat upon a page of ink-blotted poems. the electricity was off again and the water seemed to be dwindling, but for once it didn't seem like a hindrance - there was something fun about collecting the rain in an assortment of barrels and cups, dining by candlelight and dozing off in front of the fire. he didn't really mind the absence of the heating - the fire was warmer and prettier, anyway. he really didn't mind being alone with roman as he wrote, even though he usually found it intimidating - the way his hands moved across the paper seemed more relaxing at this time of night, more natural, and he leaned on his elbows to watch as the fountain pen dipped its way across the paper. life was not perfect.

he didn't really mind.

at some point, roman asked virgil if he wanted to invite logan and patton over, because he didn't want him to feel uncomfortable or awkward with just the two of them, and if so should he make some more cocoa? and virgil nonchalantly declined, because it was definitely storming out there and he wouldn't want them to get caught out in it, but more cocoa would be welcome, hell yes. a faint smile traced itself over roman's pretty lips and he pushed himself up, his chair scraping the tiled floor, and busied himself in the kitchen gathering cocoa and sugar and milk.

they remained in comfortable silence for a while longer before virgil asked, 

"why'd you do all that for me?"

and roman turned around, tilting his head so his auburn hair fell into his eyes, still smiling that genuine smile. "what can i say?" his eyes twinkled, the colour of sage. "i love making dreams come true."

virgil had shoved him with a giggle, muttering something about his stupid corny bullshit to cover up the steadily growing flush in his cheeks. even as he snarked and joked around, his heart brimmed with tears and elation, because this nerd actually cared about him, and being cared for was a new sensation. even as he trudged upstairs that night, worn out from digging and planting and laughing, he smiled, smiled, smiled until his cheeks began to burn. even then he grinned, until he slowly fell asleep.

he looks out the window at the vegetable garden now. it's grown since that day, its influence spreading across the garden, sprouting flowerbeds and patches of herbs and a trellis or two. most of the crop was harvested months ago and it's mostly bare, save for a couple of last pumpkins. patton offered to take them to bake a pie, but they're swollen from the rain now and beginning to rot. never mind, patton would say when he and logan came over on sunday for lunch and a glass or wine, there was always next year, and in the mean time roman's already made pumpkin preserves galore, so they can always spin something out of that if they want. the couple have lived over the lake very comfortably for five years now - patton is a baker who sends his goods into the city to be sold on weekends and logan is a retired professor, so they're not doing too bad financially. virgil squints. through the bare garden hedge, he can see the lake, black at the edges and midnight blue at the centre, a round silver moon at the very middle like a cherry atop a cupcake. if he squints harder, he can make out the twinkling lights of their cabin. the very sight of it makes him smile. roman shifts in his lap, nuzzling against his pyjama shorts with a contented sigh.

yes, roman drives him up the wall. he's melodramatic, self-centered at times, clumsy, careless with his long limbs, unaware of his own strength. sometimes he's loud, sometimes he's moody, sometimes he's all of the above. but as virgil leans his head cautiously against the back off the couch, the television muted as the credits of hercules continue to roll, he casts his eye over their home, and a buzz of happiness bubbles up inside his chest. the unfinished dish of lasanga sits on the table, along with pages of roman's cursive writing lying askew and dripped in candlewax. several mugs of hot chocolate and coffee lie atop the kitchen counters, the breakfast bar is piled high with snippings of fabric (remains of virgil's newest project, which has already sold for a nice sum of money) and the dirty dishes are stacked at the sink. damn. a lot of dirty dishes. he and roman'll find some new creative way to fight over that chore later, but... not now. settling deeper into the couch, virgil yawns and pulls his roommate a tiny bit closer. dare he wrap a casual arm around his shoulders? _it's risky... fuck it. who cares, anyway? nobody's watching, it's 2am, and if he somehow wakes up before me, i'll blame him for falling asleep on me first._

and so, to the sound of the fire's popping and crackling, virgil's eyes flutter closed, the comforting warm weight of roman against his chest and the lingering smell of burning wood upon his tongue. he rests his cheek upon russet curls and lets himself sleep.

* * *

_thump._

virgil jumps. _phew, just a branch falling._ not uncommon when you live in the woods - probably the rain's fault. he settles back down.

_thump._

just another branch. _the storm's really picking up now, huh._

_thump._

okay, it's not the storm.

virgil shakes himself awake with a yawn. through a bleary-eyed, tired haze, he watches without really seeing as a strange silhouette crushes the rotting pumpkins in the vegetable patch.

_wait._

he shakes himself again. slaps himself on the wrist. blinks hard once, twice, three times as he gazes out the window, mouth open in dumb shock. 

"is... is that a fucking dragon?"


End file.
